


Old Friends

by subtextgirl



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-30
Updated: 2008-07-30
Packaged: 2018-05-23 22:38:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6132541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subtextgirl/pseuds/subtextgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We two have run about the slopes and picked the daisies fine; but we’ve wandered many a weary foot since auld lang syne” ~ Robert Burns, Auld Lang Syne (English translation) Set post-Conviction.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Friends

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: None of the characters belong to me etc. etc. They are the creation of Dick Wolf and Co. and I use them without permission for entertainment purposes only. Please don’t sue.  
> Spoilers: Set post Conviction (series finale), so spoiler-wise anything, from the original Olivia/Alex years is fair game.  
> 

It was reasonable to suggest that this was not how she had foreseen her day would conclude. Not that any part of the last twenty-four hours had been foreseeable, even by her own personal historic standards, but still. Of course, that wasn’t to say that upon waking that morning, she hadn’t possessed an unequivocal notion of what her day would hold. It was the same notion that, bar a couple of ill-fitting distractions, she had willingly allowed to guide her through the last three months of her otherwise seemingly mundane existence. And until now, even if she did say so herself, this had been working for her just fine. Yet today, things had undoubtedly not gone to plan, in fact ‘to hell’ was a much more accurate descriptor of the day’s events. Yet once again, she reminded herself, she had adapted. Re-grouped. Accommodated. She had survived.

It was what she did.

If she allowed herself to acknowledge it, she would have to concede that this sudden and unexpected inclination toward self-reflection was comforting, familiar, comfortable. Like an old shirt you didn’t even remember owning until you find it at the back of your closet and realize it still fits like a second skin.

Like an old friend.

But then she most definitely was not deliberating that thought any further, because that had certainly not been part of her back-up plan – the plan that had apparently emerged somewhere between waiting, in what she could only rationalize as being a state of semi-shock, on the court room steps, and somehow finding herself sharing a silent cab ride back to her recently acquired apartment some five hours later.

No, her new plan was undoubtedly unrivalled, indomitable in its absolute simplicity. Fool proof. Her mind was resolute. She had a goal, a focus.   There would be no diversions, no second-guessing, no internal debate. This was her objective and she was going to achieve it. Her _raison d’etre_. It was who she _was_.

As long as she maintained her focus, kept her objective in sight, everything would be just fine. She’d be fine.

_“Alex?”_

~~~

The interior had looked exactly the way she’d imagined from her cursory first glance at the battered neon sign hanging over the doorway. Low-lighting – to the point of eclipse, a handful of dingy booths scattered across the back wall, a pool table that had clearly seen better days; and, at the bar, a dark haired detective staring morosely into a shot glass long since drained. Of course, it had been too damn dark to actually see the other woman’s facial expression, but if she’d been forced to take her best guess – something she never would have settled for previously, she briefly considered – then she’d have to go with morose. Sombre just seemed so non-committal.

As she slipped onto a stool further down the bar, she felt the friction of ripped nylon meeting Chanel, and idly wished that she’d had the presence of mind to exchange her current costume for something more appropriate. But on the other hand, she was strangely grateful for the protective shield it seemed to offer her. The identity. She wanted to say _familiar_ , but the word just wouldn’t come. The thought was almost enough to bring a wry smile to her lips. Inarticulate. Another first. Maybe her suit _didn’t_ hold magical powers after all. She kind of wished she was wearing her glasses.

But then, when she’d stopped by the 1-6 earlier in the evening, after the insanity of the day she’d just endured, she couldn’t quite verbalise what was running through her mind, but it had definitely not been her personal fashion concept. In fact, if objective thought had been guiding her in the least, she was fairly certain she never would’ve ended up at the precinct at all. She’d done a pretty good job of avoiding it for the last four months. Yet all of a sudden she’d been standing in the middle of the squad room, realising with a dawning horror, that the entire area had fallen silent, she had absolutely no idea of what she was doing, and the one person she actually wanted to see, was no where in sight.

It was at this point, she recalled, that Elliot had taken her by the elbow and steered her toward an empty interview room. Whether he’d done this out of deep-seated professional courtesy or genuine concern was unclear, and that she no longer felt able to make that call spoke volumes. But the next thing she knew, tired blue eyes were staring into hers, and she realised that she still had the ability to comprehend when Detective Stabler was majorly pissed at her. However, after a heavy sigh and a couple of withering looks, it turned out that she was not entirely Public Enemy No.1 – possibly the only advantage of dying for your cause, she considered – and she was being ushered out of the room with hushed directions to a bar eight blocks from the station.

As she settled on her new perch, she stole a brief glance to her right. Her companion had refused to look up – their gaze seemingly fixed on the grainy images of a local channel playing on a portable TV set hanging precariously from the ceiling at the far end of the bar. Yet she knew her presence had been noted. With a nuanced tilt of her head, the disinterested bar tender produced an additional shot glass placing it haphazardly before her; and, in a surprisingly fluid motion poured two liberal shots. As he swept between them she caught a hint of the odour that can only be caused by an unrelenting exposure to stale beer, cheap cigarette smoke, and the dregs of humanity who passed through joints like this on a continual loop between the streets, a jail cell and the nearest bar. It brought back memories.

As she downed the shot, she was grateful that the first of her reincarnations, over three years ago, had claimed a certain penchant for cheap scotch. The burning in her throat was almost a relief. She chanced another sideways look, her breath catching as her glance was met with wary brown eyes. Hoping her initial reaction had been hidden by the sub-par ambience, she subconsciously smoothed her skirt. Pulling herself to her full height, she nodded once more at their patron, sliding a bill onto the bar between them; her eyes never leaving the other woman. She watched alertly as a sleek leather jacket was slowly pulled on.

Maybe the suit had been working for her after all.

~~~

The proceeding cab ride had also been made in silence. That her companion had as yet demanded no explanation for her unexpected appearance, she had been too thankful to question any further. In fact, she had been more than content, she realised, to focus solely on the solid figure beside her. The other woman’s jacket had lain casually open from where she’d shrugged it on at the bar, revealing a snugly fitting T-shirt beneath. Her hair was now longer and lighter than she had recalled, and she had seemed almost carefully at ease. Only to an experienced observer, had her casual repose been belied by a defiant squaring of the shoulders and a gaze seemingly fixed on the distant city that flowed around them.

Yet there had been something else in the other woman’s set that was foreign to her. She had looked tired, and not just from the twenty hour shift she has undoubtedly just worked. It had been more than that. And it had been familiar enough to make her pull swiftly away from that line of questioning. Yet she had still felt her heart beating double time in her chest, a disturbing contradiction to the gnawing that had begun in her stomach, and she really hadn’t remembered New York evenings being so cold.

Only when her mind had begun to consider whether city cabbies really did charge patrons who empty their stomach contents in an untimely fashion in the back of their vehicles, had she noticed the steadying effect on her breathing that the warm weight which had suddenly appeared draped around her shoulders had seemed to have. Instead she had simply inhaled deeply marvelling at the unaccustomed warmth seeping into her from the leather sanctuary as her eyes had joined those of her silent companion which appeared rigidly fixed to the blur of lights and movement around them as the cab continued its steady crawl uptown.

She would later realise that the overwhelming sensation she was beginning to feel had started when warm fingers had sneaked covertly across the back of the car, gently enfolding her own, their owners attention remaining silently ahead.

She never felt her own fingers respond to this new stimuli, merely watched as they closed in response, grasping blindly. And it hadn’t mattered because they were no longer her fingers. And the hand they were clinging onto definitely could not have belonged to anyone she knows, or knew. Because that person would never have let themselves sit in this suddenly deafening silence, and she would certainly not have been gripping onto said fingers as if her life depended on it. But yet they had been soft and warm and comforting, and there had been another unfamiliar clenching in her stomach, different from the earlier sensation, and suddenly she had known exactly what she wanted because she could feel it. And the small part of her which was still thinking had been telling her that this was a bad idea, verging on disastrous, and most definitely not part of the plan she had thus far carefully followed. But really, where had this current plan gotten her anyway, aside from a bigger office and irritating minions? But then thinking had become harder and less appealing, and she had become somehow overly aware of another pounding in her chest, and everything else had faded, and it had been as if a weight had lifted off of her and for the first time in what felt like forever, it had been suddenly amazingly clear. She had a goal, and she was going to achieve it.

Her skin had felt suddenly exposed, and she had peripherally realised that the cab had stopped. The cool night air indicated that the door had been opened and she had greedily reclaimed the proffered hand that reached back inside the cab for her. Standing on the sidewalk, for a fleeting moment, she had considered that she should probably return the hand to its still silent owner. But that was not part of the plan. Only when the doorman greeted her somewhat concernedly had she realised that she never remembered giving the driver her address. The elevator doors had opened into her apartment and she was momentarily glad that she was wearing her companion’s jacket. Social niceties, after all, really hadn’t fitted in with the plan.

~~~

The coat was off her shoulders as she stepped into the hallway, hitting the solid oak floor with a resounding thump, and she briefly wondered what her mother would think. But then it really hadn’t mattered because she had a goal to accomplish, and her lips were suddenly on the other woman’s, pushing her forward into the dark apartment. Wall lights flickered and she regained her bearings in the still unfamiliar space allowing her to guide them into the nearest room, which she conveniently calculated was her bedroom. But again it hadn’t mattered because she could feel the hot stale breath working in time with her own and her fingers were hurriedly clawing at clothing and no matter how close she was pressed up against the warm body in front of her, she still craved more contact. Mere seconds had passed but it felt like minutes. Her goal in sight, there was an urgency that she couldn’t explain but there was tugging and pulling and she knew she was no longer in control and this just made her push harder until the pounding in her ears made it impossible to think which was a relief because she was so tired of thinking. A sharp sting in her elbow told her they were at the doorframe, which meant another three feet, and then victory. Bed. A sharp exhalation from her companion announced its proximity as gravity took hold and she was suddenly straddling the other woman. Teeth clashed and breath hitched and it was inelegant and messy and perfect.   And she knew she should stop but she couldn’t and she was grasping at fabric and skin, and although there was somehow no longer kissing involved it was getting harder to breathe. Her throat felt thick and there was an unfamiliar taste on her lips and she could feel the coarse material of the shirt beneath her fingers and if only her limbs would co-operate. If she could just focus on the task at hand. But there was an unaccounted for shuddering that she couldn’t quite place and she couldn’t recall any previous presence of the weight that seemed to have descended on her chest. But she was okay. She would be okay. As long as….

_“Alex?”_

 ~~~

She wants to object to the distracting interruption but she can’t quite focus. She should just stick to the plan but there are now hands again covering her own pulling them away from the face they are desperately grasping and guiding them down to a warm waist. And there are gentle fingers on her cheeks wiping at unnoticed moisture before soft arms secure her body so she is breathing only the comforting scent of day old soap and perfume. Against her will her eyes drift close, and she feels her weight being shifted. She wants to fight this unfamiliar feeling surrounding her but she’s so tired and the weight next to her is so wonderfully solid. The pillow beneath her is beating steadily in her ear, and she can hear her own breath echoing its comforting rhythm. A whispered sigh floats over her and she knows she’s succumbed.

_“Alex”._

 ~~~

When she next opens her eyes, the room is dark. Only the faint rumble of traffic on the street below informs her that a new day in the city is inevitably beginning to stir. A sharp wind rattles the window frame and she hazily wonders why she hasn’t felt the chill. She probably should be more surprised when she realises she is not alone in the room. But then, in a way, she really isn’t. After all, Liv had always been good with victims. She carefully turns her head to silently observe the figure next to her. Even in her state of slumber there is an unerring sorrow that seems to haunt her expression. The memories of the previous twenty-four hours flood back, and she knows she should probably feel more humiliated than she is inclined to. But she just can’t. Maybe because when she looks at Olivia all she sees is the effect of the last three years and it scares her that she may have had the power to do this to another person, especially Olivia. And if she admits how much she meant to Olivia, she’d have to question some other decisions that she’s made, and if she does that, she might never have the energy to ever leave this room, and that’s the one thing she’s certain Olivia’s going to do as soon as she wakes up and realises what’s just happened. She hopes in a way that Olivia will do this while she’s still pretending to be sleeping next to her, as she’s learnt from experience that any other way is just too painful

Yet all this still doesn’t quite explain how she has come to be the one clinging on to the sleeping figure next to her. And it probably also doesn’t explain the growing pressure in her chest as her companion turns in her slumber and a warm pair of arms come to rest securely around her own waist, pulling their bodies clumsily together. Nor does it explain the suppressed rush of air which logically must have come from her own throat as she finds herself sobbing silently onto Olivia’s exposed right shoulder. And it definitely does not explain the reason why she begins to feel soothed enough to allow her eyes to drift closed, breathing in rhythm with the gentle fingers stroking tenderly over her hair and temples, a soft kiss to the crown of her head finally lulling her into a dreamless sleep.

It doesn’t explain it at all.

~ Finis


End file.
